


Rudyard Ruins A Proposal

by Melanie_D_Peony



Series: Rudyard Ruins EVERYTHING [7]
Category: Wooden Overcoats (Podcast)
Genre: Awkwardness, Fluff, Frankly indecent levels of sap, Heads up for SPOILERS and reappropriating canon text for my own selfish purposes, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Positively shameful amount of earnestness, Romance, Romantic Gestures, Sinfully self-indulgent writing, Tenderness, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:08:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29816487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_D_Peony/pseuds/Melanie_D_Peony
Summary: Rudyard Funn runs a funeral home in the village of Piffling Vale. It used to do rather well. It doesn't any more.Rudyard had been trying to be the victor of both love and commerce, all on his own terms. But he is running rapidly out of options and it all seems to boil down to a choice he hoped he'd never have to make: Chapman or Funn Funerals?But he'll strive into the unknown, battling against adversity in one last, desperate attempt at armistice. After all, with his precarious business already hovering on the brink of oblivion, even Rudyard can't make matters worse.Surely.
Relationships: Eric Chapman/Rudyard Funn
Series: Rudyard Ruins EVERYTHING [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2003398
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	Rudyard Ruins A Proposal

Things were tense at Funn Funerals since the disastrous double date at Frangipani's, to say the least. Many long months have passed, but the unwavering sense of unease never lifted and was beginning to grate on everyone's nerves. Rudyard had even less patience for what he'd perceived as other people's antics; so I feared the worse when Antigone decided to join him in the junk filled recesses of the attic of Funn Funerals, early one morning.

'Come on, come on, where are you?' Muttered Rudyard. 

I've been with him since the small hours of dawn, watched him moving cautiously among the rolling hills of rubbish, piled into recklessly teetering towers. Rubbish, consisting mostly of discarded, damaged toys, looking like banished relics of a childhood that was evicted without notice one day.

Which is what happened in a way, I suppose.

So lost was he in this endeavour that he didn't notice when his sister turned up, oozing through the trapdoor like a spill of ink in water. Folding her arms, she beheld her brother with her head cocked. She watched him wade through a sea of waste and toss aside positively possessed-looking old teddies and depressing, broken jack-in-a-boxes pooling limply from their container, before finally deciding to make herself known.

'Nice to see that you are keeping busy.' 

Rudyard jumped, startled, and consequently induced a small avalanche of clutter. Gathering himself he turned to his sister and gave her a narrow look of contempt. 

'Antigone, I told you a million times not to lurk! It's terribly off-putting and it scares the customers!'

'Rudyard, our costumers are dead.' Antigone's voice was little more than a reverent whisper. 'They are past being scared.'

'Yes, yes very profound.' Rudyard's face pinched into an expression of suspicion. 'What do you want?'

'To check on you.'

'Well, congratulations, you've succeeded beyond your wildest dreams. So off you pop, back to your lair now.' The undertaker waved, already distracted, eyes scanning the maze of refuse once more. Adding, when his sister remained glued to the spot. 'But seriously, don't you have some work to do? You had the body of Mr Gathering for days!'

But implying that Antigone was slacking was a serious mistake.

'And his funeral is not for another twenty-four hours.' She seethed, quick to retort 'Anyway, how do you expect me to work in this racket?! I can hear it all the way from the mortuary! Rudyard, you've been up here for hours. What are you even doing?' 

'Looking for something.' Rudyard quipped, quick and defensive.

'Looking for what?' 

Rudyard turned suddenly pensive before his eyes slid off of Antigone and he stared, unfocused, a little to the left. Then, after a beat or two, he lifted his gaze, his resolve strengthened.

'An old jewellery box. I would have sworn that it was in the attic.' And with sudden, elated recognition he clicked his finger in the general direction of Antigone. 'Maybe you could help me find it!' 

'I'd rather look at the corpses!' Antigone declared, turning on her heels. Her hand was already wrapped around the knob on the trapdoor when she heard her brother mumble.

'Also, what happened to all my staff? Your rubbish is all over the place but I can't see anything of mine.' The click of the trapdoor falling shut had the slightest guilty undertone. Rudyard studied the uneven outline of his sisters hunched back with a sinking sense of suspicion. 'Do you know anything about that? Antigone?'

Shooting to her feet Antigone thrust her wrists against her hips.

'Well don't just stand there chatting away.' She yelped with urgency. 'That box isn't going to find itself.'

And thus they began combing the clutter with the combined forces of Funn Funerals. Upending heaps of chipped China, emptying bagfuls of their old clothes that would have looked equally befitting on sinister Victorian orphans, until, at last-

'AQUEEEEEH!' Antigone emerged from a worn travel trunk clutching the intricate jewellery box. 

'Give me it.' Rudyard jumped to her but she held it over her head and out of reach of his diminutive big brother.

'Not until you tell me what you need it for.' She taunted. 'Is this somehow to do with the funeral?' 

Rudyard was so shocked that he stopped hopping, trying to knock the box from her hand.

'No. Why would it? Mr Gathering was a tree surgeon, not a goldsmith.' Then he added after a brief, thoughtful pause. 'And he'd only ever worn earrings for informal events. Never for a funeral.'

'Well, I can't see what else would you need it for. You've already pawned everything worth of value here.'

'Not everything, I haven't.' Argued Rudyard.

He gestured timidly for the box, in an obvious showcase of surrender and Antigone handed it over, albeit a bit reluctantly. Rudyard rattled around in it for a while then pulled out something, holding it enclasped in his wrist at long last. He offered it to Antigone to look at with such tender awkwardness that I couldn't get sight of it, not even as I sat perched in Rudyard's top pocket. All I could see was the volatile expression of the outraged mortician.

'You can't sell this one. Rudyard, we agreed.' She hissed, profound offence seeping into her voice. 'It's a family heirloom.'

'I'm not selling it.'

'But then what do you-'

'OK, just think about it for a second.' Rudyard's shoulders hitched and tensed as he began to explain with both sincere exasperation and a truly offensive level of condescension. 'Now given the nature of this thing here... and given how we've now painstakingly established that I am not offering it for sale... what could I conceivably be up to?'

They say that twins often don't need words to make themselves understood and while the Funn siblings didn't utter a word, they still seemed to have a conversation consisting entirely of heated gazes and weighed breaths just then. Until Antigone's eyes widened a fraction and she stared at her brother in a single, long, unblinking glare of terror.

'Oh, God.' She growled and Rudyard nodded mournfully.

'Yes.' 

'Oh no, no-no-no-no-no!'

Antigone collapsed abruptly as if the very support beams of the attic were pulled from beneath her, dramatic dress pooling about her hunched frame. There was a splash of angry colour against her cheek 

'So that's it?' She snapped, spiteful. 'You? Giving up? Now?'

'Antigone-' Meanwhile Rudyard sounded almost painfully aggravated, trying to catch the mortician's attention.

But Antigone was too lost in her own monologue to listen.

'After all we've been through? It's a family business, Rudyard! 15th century. That has to mean something to you!' She wailed dramatically, then proceeded to drop her voice a shade and added almost like an afterthought. 'Doesn't it?'

'Now look here, I'm not giving up.' Rudyard confirmed, but his sister's tirade was far from being over.

'Sounds like you are. Aren't you? And then what will become of us? What will happen to Georgie and her job? To my job?' 

'I said I'm not giving up!' Rudyard snapped and collapsed by his sister, chest rippling like he was made to redo the two hundred meter dash. 'If anything I'm trying harder than ever to save our business.'

'By ingratiating yourself with your rival, conforming to his corporate, Chapmanic hive mind-?' Antigone accused but Rudyard cut her off.

'By making an honest Funn out of him.' 

And he finally unfurled his fingers. I scuttled out of his pocket and onto the floor where his hand rested to catch a glimpse of the contents of his palm.

It was a ring. An ancient and elaborate one, bulky with a finely cut stone in the middle. Old enough to have been in the Funns possession since the 15th century.

But still, undeniably, an engagement ring.

'Why would that make him want to give up the business?' Antigone wondered, pulling an excited exclaim from Rudyard, his usual delusion of grandeur lighting up his eyes.

'That's the beauty of it, actually. He can continue to put the fun in funerals for all I care - as long as he does it as a subsidiary of Funn Funerals!' My friend explained. 'And it pays _us_.'

'I'm not entirely sure you've thought this through, Rudyard.' Antigone muttered, letting her voice to wander off with the words. 

'Look, face it' Rudyard began to explain, interrupting his excited gesticulating only to sweep strands of hair out of his face, unfortunate bowl-cut obscuring his eyes. 'sabotage doesn't work, competing with him doesn't work. We can't eliminate him unless you want me to get thrown into jail again-'

'Hm, tempting.'

'So the only- What was that?'

'Nothing, nothing ignore me. You were saying?' 

'So the only option left is to assimilate him.'

'You mean-'

'Yes!

'Funn Funerals and Chapman’s together at last.' Antigone spelt it out, her distaste tempered by something akin to trembling anticipation; something almost amounting to a faint sliver of hope 

'Now you are catching on!' Rudyard agreed with a frenzied nod as the mortician seemed to steadily warm to the plan. 

'Which would make us the only funeral home again!' Antigone sighed, then frowned in recognition. 'Well, technically.'

'Right.' Rudyard's eyes glazed over along with a fleeting, whistful expression overcoming his voice. 'And then everything will be just like before. Except maybe worse, whilst not being as bad as it is now – and in my book, that’s a win.'

The sentiment prompted Antigone to inspect Ruytard with a distrustful, sidelong glance.

'Please tell me that you are not just doing this for the sake of the business.' She growled and for the first time since their conversation began a touch of guardedness seemed to afflict Rudyard. 

His shoulders twitched, travelled towards his ears in a half aborted motion, a shy, self-possessed sort of smile tugging on his lips

'I regret to inform you.' He confessed. 'that he sort of grew on me, Chapman.'

'That's hardly a compelling enough reason for getting hitched.' Commented Antigone, more contemplative than accusatory. 

Rudyard, however, reacted with a sigh so heavy like he was about to unburden himself of some truly horrible crime.'

'Which is to say' He gnarled, mincing the words through his teeth. 'that nowadays I find that he means everything to me.'

But Antigone studied the way abandon crept minutely into Rudyard's well-honed stern frown as he twiddled with the ring in his hand distractedly. And she couldn't help but wail under the crushing wave of realisation that, regardless of his disdained cadence, his brother had meant every word he said. 

'Oh, God.' 

'I know.' Huffed Rudyard, running his hand helplessly through his hair, almost as if to scratch his scalp in utter befuddlement. 'I was as appalled as you are.' 

'It's not a crime for you to be happy, you know.' Antigone said softly after a brief pause, her innocuous tone too light to even disturb the finest of gossamer, let alone Rudyard's inflated yet fragile, soap bubble sense of self. 

'Antigone, happy is against everything we stand for!' Snapped Rudyard in response, thoroughly offended. 'Especially if it goes hand in hand with subscribing to Chapman's wheat-free, tie-dye, sing-along nonsense.' 

'Jesus wept, can't you just come to terms with the fact that you love the man already?' Antigone berated him in turn. 

'Never! I may be head over heels but I can still hate the fact on principle.'

And for a moment they both succumbed to silence, probably imagining a future tied strongly to the entrepreneur of appalling success and charm across the square; both looking equally disgruntled yet thrilled by the prospect for wildly differing reasons. 

But finally, after a pause so unlike the Funns, full of camaraderie and things unsaid, Rudyard turned to his sister, demanding: 

'So do I have your blessing or what?'

'Oh, now you want my blessing?' Antigone glowered, her brows travelling towards her hairline like a pair of derailed trains headed for a cliff, two instruments potent with destruction.

Rudyard answered with an expression of matching scorn as if he was gearing up for a fight. But when he spoke his voice seemed to betray him, emerging as a small, breathy, reedy thing. 

'Antigone. Please.' 

In the responding silence, Antigone shuffled closer to her brother with an awkward, heavy tug of her body. Swaying slightly, she bumped her bony shoulder against Rudyard's for a brief flutter of a moment.

'Rudyard,' She breathed, fixing her twin with a gaze that seemed both too stern and too sincere at once.' In the past few years alone I got lost in the Atlantic trying to bury a dead seagull, been a fortune teller and a clairvoyant and organised intrepid adventure funerals in support of whatever stupid venture you tried at the time. What gave you the impression that I'd back out now?' 

'So is that a yes or-' Rudyard grinned at her tauntingly and she spat as a retort.

'Rudyard!' Before she tasted a calming gulp of air, taking a fortifying breath, stifling her anger before it had a chance to gather heat or momentum and mumbled. 'I just think you should go with whatever your heart tells you.'

Prompting Rudyard to extend a hand and gave her wrist a surreptitious, grateful little squeeze.

'Thank you, Antigone.' He all but mouthed before pulling away again.

Mainly because we heard an unusual noise filter through the thinning, mildewy walls of Funn Funerals. An unfamiliar sound that had little to no business emerging from the cobbled square below. It would have been better suited to the old Emmanuelle or even a classy restaurant.

It was the unmistakable din of an entire symphonic orchestra tuning their instruments.

Climbing the multiple stairs with utmost sobriety, the Funns emerged from their funeral home to confront the daylight filled with trepidation; things out of the ordinary rarely worked in their favour after all. Antigone ferried me, following her brother closely, as he caught sight of the square all-a-flutter with the commotion of a small crowd. The Piffling Philharmonics arranging themselves onto folding chairs practically on their front porch had failed to put them at ease. Mostly because neither of them considered themselves much of experts on handling large groups of people. 

And the congregation only grew as the sight began to draw in onlookers. Some only paused to ogle for a minute or two. But other, rather prominent people allowed their curiosity to get the better of them. The infamous village hoodlums, for instance, took time out of their busy schedule to make a little detour, even though they were expected to loiter in the bus stop all morning with only the briefest pause for lunch and looming at McPiffling's before they'd have to make an appearance and menace the viaduct, built specifically in their honour. Rather, they shuffled over to the Funns with the awkward gait that was a common feature of the terrifying youth element of Piffling.

'Hello Miss Antigone.' They mumbled as one, looking a bit cowed and a bit awed, timid in the presence of the mortician, whom they all considered a personal hero of theirs due to her dark outlook on life, morbidity and antisocial tendencies. That and her impeccable taste in French cinema.

'Oh, hello hoodlums.' Antigone greeted them magnanimously. 'Do you know what is the meaning of all this fracas?' 

'Looks like a sort of demonstration, innit?' Wagered Roz, scrutinizing the proceedings from the shelter of her cap, blowing a chewing gum bubble with a mild expression of carefully maintained apathy.

'But what are they protesting?' Paled Rudyard, wrecking his mind for an incident that might have turned the public mood against him once more.

'That doesn't really matter now, does it?' Shrugged Wez. 'Like, regardless of the huge, fervent political energy on the ground, the practical results will be disproportionately small, yeah?'

'Shush!' Roz hissed at her friend. They had a reputation of being teenage petty criminals, graffiti taggers extraordinaire and nightmarish spectres of ignorance and violence, after all. Aring their political views, their opinion on art or their thoughts on digital age alienation was at odds with that image.

'Is this relevant?' Rudyard asked, giving the hoodlums a dubious once over.

'It won't be' Shrugged Wez while his friends glared at him, trying to convey homicidal intent wih looks alone. 'unless the motion is supported by organizations capable of, like, old-fashioned permanent political work now, ey?'

'Ooh, tell on!' Breathed Roz who was suddenly getting sucked into the conversation. Rudyard, however, dismissed them with an imperious handwave.

'No, this doesn't intrigue me.' He declared, turning his attention back to the crowd, trying to gauge whether it was turning bloodthirsty.

And as more and more musicians began to find their seating in the hierarchy of the band, in the middle of the square he was finally able to make out a very familiar, Chapman-shaped shape which turned out to be-

'Chapman!' Rudyard yelped and he launched himself into the mass of people. Followed closely by his sister, who couldn't help having some misgivings about her brother entering any large gathering.

Upon hearing his name Eric looked up from what seemed to be a heated conversation with the conductor of Piffling Philharmonics. When he spotted Rudyard he began to wave the people, who still congregated around him, away.

'He is here. Quick, to your positions.'

This was followed by desperate scrambling where every last man tried to claim a seat as the conductor jumped into a spot in front of the semicircle of his charges with surprising agility. He waved his baton and, instantly, soft music began to swell as all the philharmonics tended to their instruments. Something gentle and hopeful emerged from the string section, mixed with wistfulness floating from the direction of the percussions, while the brass instruments shined and shimmered in the sunlight that seemed to follow Eric wherever he went.

Rudyard, however, ignored them altogether as he planted himself in front of Chapman and tried to talk over the beautiful symphony in the making in his usual, pompous manner.

'Ok, Chapman, you've got no business staging a protest right outside our home.' He argued, though there was scarcely any heat to his words. In fact, he sounded gracious, almost grateful to be talking to Eric. He was trying, to no avail, to bite back a smile threatening to spill on his features.

'I mean, it's a public square.' Chapman frowned back in confusion while Antigone snapped at him over his brother's shoulder.

'Way more public than you.' Before she remembered that they were expected to be civil around Eric these days. So she added with a placating hand gesture. 'Sorry, Chapman, it's automatic.' 

'Anyway, this isn't a protest.' 

'It's an angry mob, I knew it.' Flinched Antigone, hissing and backing away like a startled alley cat. 

But, unphased by her panic, Eric calmly began to fish around in his pockets with a self-conscious sort of smile.

'Actually, I am here to make a proposition.' 

And, having found whatever he was scrambling for, he bent his knees like he was about to bow in supplication. Meanwhile, I became suddenly aware of all the curious gazes hanging upon us expectantly and that the background music was just reaching a crescendo and a terrible realisation started to dawn on me. There was beautiful melody everywhere and a soft ripple of awed gasps from those onlookers who chanced upon us unintended as Eric descended on one knee in front of Rudyard, holding his right softly in one hand.

'Rudyard-' He began.

And then the moment of precarious pathos, settling into itself like the inside of an elaborate snowglobe was shattered into a million pieces by a feral cry emerging from the front door of Funn Funerals.

'Nooooooooo.' Blurted Georgie trailing the bellow behind her as she tore across the square like something possessed. The music collapsed into cacophony and scattered around in jumbled pieces as the players lowered their instruments in confusion. Meanwhile, Eric scrambled to stand upright with a frown so deep, it threatened to become permanent.

'Georgie.' He emitted an exhausted moan as the dogsbody wedged herself between him and her employer.

'Eric, what the Hell are you doing?' She demanded to know and the undertaker jabbed his hand in the general direction of the scene around them as means of an explanation.

'Well, what does it look like to you?' 

'Looks like the biggest bloody mistake you've ever made.' Snatching the scores from one of the musicians, Georgie rolled it into a sort of makeshift megaphone and hollered at their rival through it. 'It's like as if you are _trying_ to get rejected here. Which part of "no gimmicks" did you not understand?!' 

'Give me that.' Eric muttered, tearing the paper's away from her. 'Listen, Georgie, correct me if I'm wrong-'

'I can. And I will.'

'But there's usually rather more involved in a proposal than simply turning up and asking someone if they fancy going down the aisle.'

'Funny, Eric.' Georgie may have refrained from resorting to violence so far, but her face was definitely more sneer than a smile. 'Because when you proposed to me you did. Exactly. That.'

'No, I didn't, it was very romantic.' Chapman protested while Georgie spat back at him.

'Romantic, huh?! That's not how I remember it, sunshine.'

'Well, I recall that I prepared a tasteful, personalized speech-'

'You mean when you forced me to endure the most gruelling proposal in the history of proposals, entrapping me in an avalanche of bad poetry for hours on end?'

'Georgie, _Pride and Prejudice_ isnn't bad. And it isn't even poetry!' Eric, who was growing steadily more aggravated throughout this conversation was shouting by now, jutting his hands in the air in utter exasperation. 'Anyway, if you don't like my grand romantic gestures-'

'And I really, really don't.'

'Then what would you have me do instead?' 

'I toldyou what to do. The key was always going to be speed and efficiency. And none of this chick-flick, romcom, lovey-dovey nonsense.' Georgie emphasised every syllable by clapping her hands together like she was trying to educate a particularly dense pupil. But Eric just rolled his eyes, widening them larger than eyes should have any rights to be.

'Oh, who asked you anyway.' He muttered and this time it was Georgie's turn to burst out shouting. 

'You did. I'm sorry, that's literally what's happened in this situation. So I really don't get why won't you just listen when it was you who came to me for advice '

'Well, maybe if your advice was any good-'

'Oh, why don't you just keel over and die?!'

It was becoming abundantly clear, that the explosive argument between Georgie and Chapman threatened to burst into fisticuffs any minute now and while that alone should have deterred people from hanging about, the bloodthirsty Piffling populace only drew closer instead as the exchange became more charged. Even the stray clouds of the horizon seemed to wander curiously towards us, their low roll of thunder a replica of the excitable yells of Georgina and the venerable Mr Eric Chapman. Despite the growing din of the expectant crowd, I could still just about make out the stage whispers of Sugar Ray O'Hoolihan as he began to arrange a discreet betting pool, wagering the chances of the hypercompetent gravedigger against the overqualified undertaker. So thorough was the sudden shift in mood that I could already envision the changes I'd have to make to the newest chapter of the fifth books of my _Memoirs of a Funeral House Mouse_ series (available at all major retailers!).

When finally, though predictably enough, Antigone snapped.

'Enough! Both of you just shut up!' She half commanded, half pleaded. 'This is exhausting, I am exhausted. And I am covered in dust from having spent the morning skipping in a dump we call an attic and tired out from providing emotional support for my sodding brother. And I still have Mr Gathering to embalm. So, Georgina if you could stop picketing this confession, even if it's hardly more than a cheap and tawdry clichè, I'd be much obliged, yes?'

'Hey!' Protested Chapman, but Antigone just snarled at him.

'Shut up!' 

'Yeah.' Georgie glowered, flashing a petty smirk at Eric but her triumph was short-lived.

'Shut up.' Antigone hissed at her, putting her quickly to her place before facing Eric again, lecturing. 'And as for you, Chapman. If you are here to pop the question to my brother, then do you think that maybe you should focus on him, rather than, say, fight with your ex in public?' 

'Crikey.' Huffed Eric, looking both chastened and confused. 'Antigone You are absolutely right. Rudyard, I am sorry.'

'So you should be.' Nodded my friend, though more out of habit than anything else. To my surprise, he looked entertained by the chaotic proposition like I haven't seen him since the time he accidentally witnessed some French cinema while spying on Chapman.

'Good.' Antigone nodded, turning to the gathering around them. 'Now, is anyone else present know of any reason for this proposal to cease?' 

There came the gentle hum of general consensus in response; everyone seemed to have a few ideas at least. Bill went as far as to roll out a hefty parchment, its end dangling somewhere at the level of his knees.

'Just ninety-five minor concerns to raise.' He mumbled humbly.

'Well, you can stuff them.' Antigone declared, smothering his attempt and gestured at his future in-law. 'Chapman, if you please.'

'Yes. Right.' Eric shook himself a little, before actually kneeling this time. The band hastened to pick up the thread of music, struggling to follow the constant turns of events, their playing a bit off-kilter as a result. But neither Eric nor Rudyar seemed bothered by that. They were both lost in each other, placed in the private universe of those wholly in love, out of our reach.

'Rudyard Funn.' Eric began again, his voice soft but solid enough to penetrate even the densest depth of the crowd as he produced a small, velvet box. 'What would you say, if I'd suggested that we pool our resources, combine our skills and work together to advance our noble industry on Piffling?'

'Do you mean-?' Rudyard whispered reverently and Chapman responded with fervent nodding as he clicked the ring box open, revealing a simple, tasteful, gold band.

'Funn Funerals and Chapman's joining forces. No funny business, just some rock-solid funeral directing. How about it?'

The last notes of the music died down, reverberating softly in the air like an afterthought. The crowd held it's collective breath, waiting for something, anything more to forthcome, our silence only emphasised by the howl of the stormy wind picking up around us. After all, we were certain that someone as charming as Mr Chapman wouldn't do away an engagement with delivering this clumsy and very public attempt that had the feel of an impromptu board meeting rather than of a heartfelt confession. But seconds ticked past and nothing happened, apart from Rudyard's features cracking into an enraptured, smitten smile. He was just about to speak, gathering his breath for an answer when the rest of Funn Funerals decided to weigh in on the topic.

'Jesus, Chapman!' Georgie blurted, distracting the undertaker.

'What?' Eric snarled at her but it was Antigone who responded.

'That's it?!' She implored with a wide-eyed expression of disbelief written all over her. She was clearly on the verge of unleashing her palpable disappointment when Rudyard hissed at her, disgruntled:

'Antigone, what are you playing at?' Drawing the mortician's wrath on himself.

'Rudyard, he can't just breeze in and relate this insensitive pile of complete sewage, hoping that it would make you want to marry him!'

'Can't see why not.' Shrugged Rudyard with a defensive little jerk of his body. 'I thought it was absolutely stirring stuff.'

'No, it wasn't, it was awful.' Sheeted the mortician and Rudyard pulled his hand from Chapman's so he could face his sister and gesticulate at her in anger.

'He recommended a perfectly sensible approach!' 

'He can't make a marriage proposal like he's suggesting a business merger!' Antigone shrieked. 'It needs more consideration.' 

'May I remind you, Antigone, that I was already about to do the same thing?' 

'Jesus wept, Rudyard,' Antigone tore at her hair that seemed to stand more on end than usual, like the ruffled fur of an agitated stray. 'For a marriage to work you need more than diagrams of profit margins and a shared interest in interest rates. There have to be practical considerations, fair enough. But you need sensitivity. And gentleness and care too.'

'Now look-' Rudyard began, bellowing, while Chapman tried to intercept.

'I think I had my moments-' 

'No you didn't.' Antigone barked at him, extending her exasperation to include him too. 'You are both terrible at this. Varying degrees of terrible but terrible nonetheless.' 

Turning to face Eric first, Antigone was drawing fleeting patterns of hysterics into the air with her fluttering hands.

'Chapman, if you actually want to tie the knot than you have to talk about how you _really_ feel and not just fob Rudyard off with vacuous cliches and irresponsible verbal fluff.' 

Spinning on the balls of her feet, Antigone continued to berate Rudyard.

'And you must face the fact that the union of two people is about more than just marrying their wealth.'

'I agree.' Nodded Rudyard, pulling a flat and very suspicious exclaim from Antigone.

'You do.'

'Now look here, Antigone. For any matrimony to function you need commitment. You need logic. Some good, old-fashioned common sense and a stiff upper lip, that's my theory.'

'It needs more than that!' By now Antigone's voice had the pitch and shade of nails raked, scratching, against a blackboard. 'It needs nuance. And sensuality. Or the very least some kind of mutual affection, romantic or otherwise.'

'Gimmicks, all gimmicks.' Affected Rudyard.

'No, they are not, they are all necessary or the relationship is doomed from the start. And I can prove it in four simple words.' 

'I'd like to see that!' Chuckled Rudyard mirthlessly. But Antigone's next sentence froze the smile on his face.

'Remember mum and dad?' She asked plainly but her question was punctuated, in a rather spectacular fashion, by a flash of lightning. The more faint-hearted onlookers, towards the edge of the crowd, elected to abandon the sight in favour of foregoing getting caught by the building storm, while Rudyard turned back to Chapman, paling, mouth pressed into a hard, flat line.

'Oh, God.' He whispered and while Eric knew very little by the Funns' parents, Rudyard's defeated look sent him into a flurry of panic, springing to his feet.

'Oh, no.'

'I'm afraid she's right, Chapman.' Rudyard said in a small, sad and unusually introspective voice.

'Oh, no.' Breathed Chapman, while Rudyard admitted.

'If I did this for the business, I'd just screw it up like I always do.' And he made an expression, as he added, like speaking the mere words severed something vital in him. 'Perhaps we should reconsider-' 

But no sooner than he said it, Eric snatched his hand and clutched it to his sternum, stammering.

'Good grief, Rudyard.' He shook his head stubbornly, squeezing down on Rudyard's hand. Sort of like he was inviting his former rival to take his skittishly beating heart, putting the other man in charge of the treacherous, unpredictable, cumbersome organ. 'Let me try that again. I can do this.'

He glanced frantically about himself, with the look of someone hoping against all hope that the solution was concealing itself in the crowd, muttering.

'Where's a flipping Kindle when you need one?'

'No!' Georgie commanded. Clicking her fingers to catch Chapman's wandering gaze she spoke in a low, even tone. 'Eric, you've got to snap out of it. Deep breath. You are very nervous.'

'I know I am.' He admitted, miserably. 'Pointing it out will only make it worse.'

'So just breath in through your nose.' Following her advice, Eric already looked a bit more collected. 'That's it. Remember, all you need to do now is tell Rudyard how you feel, ok?'

'That's why the Kindle-'

'But' Georgie interrupted firmly in the honeyed cadence of a long-suffering educator bedraggled with the most willfully ignorant charges. 'in your own words. You love using those, ey? Didn't you compile the Merriam-Webster dictionary one summer?'

'It was the Collins, actually.' Muttered Eric, unable to refrain from correcting her.

'Because that makes a difference' Georgie muttered, murderous, to herself, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

Her pep talk, however, didn't seem to have the desired effect; Chapman just continued to stand mutely, biting his lip, unable to quite meet Rudyard's expectant gaze.

'Oh, what's the use?' He finally exclaimed 'All those words I know and none of them seems to quite express what I mean.'

'Maybe you should have thought about that before.' Georgie was beginning to lose her cool once more. 'Prepare a speech and whatnot.'

'I did.' Protested Eric. 'I literally did just that!'

'No, I think we've established that you wrote a business plan. That's not the same.'

'Oh, now you want me to be all lovey-dovey.' 

'Eric.' Georgie filled her voice with a warning. That is until her whole demeanour dropped and she admitted in a tender sort of way, voice sore as a raw wound. 'I just think that you should tell your loved ones how you feel about them while you can.'

Maybe he too remembered the recent, devastating loss that preceded Georgie's sage view because the words affected Eric like a stern nudge of a boot on his backside. All his muscles snapping into attention, he instantly pulled himself upright, startled. He finally forced himself to look Rudyard in the eyes, face paling but jaw set with determination as he steeled for the monumental task ahead.

'You are right, Georgie.' He addressed the dogsbody without lifting his intense gaze as if he was resigned to look at nothing else again but the sad yet hopeful face of his quasi fiance.

'I always am. It's a curse, really.' Georgie shrugged her shoulder with renewed nonchalance.

But no one paid any heed to her anymore. All eyes were on Chapman once again, including Rudyard's. His mournful, crushed constitution showed that he'd defaulted himself to defeat but the way he hung on every word belied how desperately he wanted things to work in his favour this once. Which was fortunate as Eric's second attempt gave back some much-needed hope.

'I am sorry, Rudyard.' Chapman began, his voice rasping like he dragged the words from underneath layers of sediment. 'This really shouldn't be so hard. I mean, you already know that I love you.'

This he intended as a statement but it felt more like a question; Rudyard replied with a flutter of a nod, almost not a movement at all. It was easy for me to tell how overcome he was from how quiet he remained. Usually, Rudyard gave the impression that he can forego breathing indefinitely just so he doesn't have to stop speaking; his frequent sleeptalking only amping up that notion. Now he was tight-lipped, however, like he attempted to conceal a large pebble under his tongue, letting Chapman carry the brunt of the conversation. Though he seemed to be struggling just the same.

'You see, I need to get this absolutely right. But because these past months were the happiest I've ever been, I keep wanting to make grand declarations of love to match the sentiment.' He chuckled with a crestfallen expression and gestured, indicating the summoned up symphonic orchestra. 'Promise to discover something and name it after you. Or steal the crown jewels for you. Again.'

Eric's eyes clouded with reminiscence and, lost deep in his musings, he missed the affectionate grimace Rudyard pulled at him. Though he was quick to recover and push on.

'But the truth here, of course, is that all this exquisite, over the top, exuberant nonsense is not what I want at all.'

'No?' Squealed Rudyard, sounding a bit winded, a bit wounded. Bracing for the second part of the speech where he suspected the hidden “excepts” and “buts” and other small script clauses to be. Eric just smiled.

'Rudyard, I've been to a lot of places.' He stated and for once, this wasn't an empty brag, more a confession, verging on an excuse or apology. 'I've been, as you so succinctly put it, practically everything. But nothing ever filled me with such thrill and excitement as the prospect of our life together. And I know that it's only been a short time, but as a matter of a fact, I can't wait for this adventure to begin.’

The awe in the crowd was palpable. Even the wind held its breath now. Only the clouds rumbled a low growl of agreement as a climatic bolt of lightning backlighted Eric’s expression, while he carried on. 

‘Now, the moments I am most keen on might strike you as trivial or mundane. But I must admit, I get positively giddy when I imagine organising our shared sock drawer together-‘

‘You are?’ Rudyard blinked in confusion. 

‘Or when I think about arguing over who gets the wall side of the bed. And these days I struggle to remember how did I get by without being able to listen to you grumble about the prices at the flower market-‘

‘Hey!’ Petunia exclaimed, offended, while Georgie felt the need to chime in.

‘Personally, I could do with a bit less of that.’

‘Shut up, Georgina.’ Antigone was quick to chide. There was, at long last, something like approval on her countenance as she listened, unblinking. ‘You are not the centre of attention here.’ 

‘Though’ Eric continued, unphased. ‘I still plan to convince Petunia to give you the wholesale price from now on.’ 

There was a ripple of an appreciative laugh in the crowd, followed by the surge of a sharp, cutting breeze; nature stifling the merriment. Summer hats and loosely held scarfs were snatched from their owners, chased down the square. But no one could find it in themselves to scurry after their possessions if that meant tearing their eyes from the unfolding scene. 

‘In conclusion.’ Eric’s unflappable sincerity faltered for the first time, his hands spasmed around Rudyard’s. ‘What I really want is for us to enj-. I mean to be happy and content together. Which may well all sound a bit silly to you. But, you know, I just wondered all the same; would you still do the honour of marrying me?’ 

Rudyard stood, looking bared beyond tolerable, exposed, put on the spot by the question. Gaping without a noise, far too overwhelmed to respond. While, in the background, the resentful but well-meaning singles of the village were offering their unbridled opinion: like “Come on, it’s a no brainer.” or “How’s that even a question?” and “Unfair. Totally unfair”. 

Or just-. Well. Wailed in agony, really. 

Finally, unable to compose himself for a comprehensible answer, Rudyard lunged forward, falling into Eric, throwing his arms around the taller man's neck. 

Because he hid his face in Chapman's chest in the process, for a shocked fraction of a moment we thought that the helpless sound of unstoppable crying was coming from him at first. That is until we discovered that it was Baz who stood concealing his streaming eyes behind the shutter of his palm. Yet the convulsions of his shoulders, shaking with poorly suppressed sobs, gave him away.

'Come on, you stupid prick, what is wrong with you?' Roz lashed out at him. 'We've been through this, innit? Marriage represents, like, a form of state-sponsored discrimination, yeah? And it leads to the social isolation of a person now, innit?"

"Yes, I know." Sniffed Baz, getting a hold of himself for a brief instance, before breaking down again. "But it's all just so bloody, bloody beautiful."

"It's okay, mate." Wez patted his friend's back. His lips were trembling too and tried as he might, he couldn't help welling up himself as he spoke; punctuating his words with hiccoughing hysterics. "It's okay. Di-hi-hi-ss-cu-hu-hu-hu-ss."

"Jeez." Roz lifted her eyes towards the heavens, enervated. But when she looked down, she shot a conspiratorial wink towards "Miss Antigone" as if to downplay the devastating disdain she maintained towards matrimony. 

All in all, by the time we were able to look away from the mesmerising sight of the two teenage thugs crying with the abandon of babes in arms, clasping each other and shedding their tears into each others' collars, Rudyard managed to gather himself somewhat. He stood, ramrod straight and imperious, his old self entirely, beside Chapman. If his eyes seemed suspiciously red-rimmed too, well. No one was going to make a comment on that now. In fact, to his credit, he was even able to conjure his most commanding voice as he turned towards his sister and his assistant.

"Now look here, you two. This is about enough lollygagging for a day. We have a lot to do and not a lot of time; guest lists to compile, invitations to make. And as for you, Antigone; I expect to see some bunting plans." 

But Chapman, who looked positively green with nauseatingly anxious anticipation, grabbed his shoulders with almost savage urgency and spun Rudyard towards himself once more.

"Wait a second, Rudyard. You haven't answered the question." He repeated, pleading. "You haven't answered the question."

And Rudyard looked up at him with an impish smile that bordered on vengeful as he said. 

"Don't you worry, Chapman. Though the war is over and you conceded defeat-"

"I did no such thing." Eric protested, his voice surfacing weak.

"I can say to you, unequivocally, like one man to another that I'd be delighted to marry you." 

By now they both sported matching, maniacal grins, wide enough to be measured in elbows rather than inches. Then, with slow inevitability, something softened yet, at the same time, heated in Eric's gaze as he sneaked a hand behind Rudyard's head, cradling the man to himself while Rudyard surged upwards. Until they united in a kiss, passionate enough to pull some lewd "whoos" and wolf whistles from the Piffling populace, despite their famously high tolerance for the raunchy.

That moment, almost as if to punish the onlookers' indiscretion, the skies opened; the first touches of the cold, hard pellets of rain replaced the salacious commentary with outraged yelps. In mere seconds the shower became an almost solid sheet of water and everybody made it for the nearest shelter; the gloomy old funeral home of the Funns.

Once inside, the congregation was quick to fan out. The foyer became largely taken up by the Piffling Philharmonics who were dismantling their delicate instruments with care and attention, draining tone holes and drying reeds with dainty little dabs. The remainder of the strange posse clustered around Reverend Wavering, who happened to be in the mass that day and was now conveying his goodwill and warmest congratulations, concluding how Mr Funn turned out to be a fine gentleman after all, even though he considered refusing the baptism of the scrawny abomination that was the baby Rudyard. 

Amidst the ebbing and flowing conflux, Georgie stood with her legs spread on the threshold. She sized up the sheer dimensions of the horde and proceeded to snap at the hoodlums, somewhat more composed at present.

‘Oi, you three. Make yourself useful. Baz, you boil the kettle. Wez, you get the coffee from the pantry. It’s in a lead box labelled “emergency”, the coffee a solid lump at the bottom. You can’t miss it. And you, Roz. Get some sugar from the cupboard. But remember, it’s _not_ in the jar that says sugar on it.’ 

The boys nipped off with a perfunctory nod and Roz took a step too, before halting. 

‘Why, what’s in that?’

‘Mrs Forrester.’ Georgie answered truthfully and Roz smirked. 

‘Cool.’ She concluded, disappearing down the hall.

Antigone manifested beside her assistant, still holding me on her outstretched palm. Widening her eyes at the unprecedented amount of people in her home, she whispered with a dismal croack.

‘Are we throwing an engagement party already?’

‘Seems so.’ Georgie shrugged and Antigone made an unintelligible sound of agitation. Doubtlessly, she thought that these festivities shouldn’t be spontaneous, but need careful organisation and lots and lots of consideration. 

‘Shouldn’t we at least tell them to come and join us?’ She wondered, stepping to a window overlooking the square. Outside, in the pouring rain, stood Rudyard and Chapman, still engaged in the same kiss of complete and utter unrestraint. Ambling up to her, Georgie shook her head. 

‘Nah. Leave them to it.’

‘They’ll catch their deaths out there.’ Protested the mortician to which Georgie responded with a suggestive sneer. 

‘I know, right?’

‘Georgina, that doesn’t even make sense.’ Snapped Antigone, but her assistant just shrugged. 

‘Coffee?’

‘Caffeine turns my hair green.’ Distracted, Antigone smoothed her mane with one hand, but Georgie bumped her shoulder in a plea. 

‘Come on. We’re celebrating.’ 

Antigone bit her lip for a moment, making a vague gesture of recklessness with her upper body. 

‘Oh, why not?’ 

But before she could make it for the kitchen, I related to her using some impressive miming and a mixture of interpretive dance and charades that I’d rather if she left me behind. So, she perched me on the windowsill, with an excellent view of the storm-battered square and the two men in the middle of it. 

There I sat, gathering my thoughts on the day and thinking about the future and-

Well.

There is no easy way to say this, really. Because it's not as if there's nothing left to talk about. After all, if his funerals are anything to go by, Rudyard Funn's wedding was promising to be a spectacularly chaotic (and potentially violent) one. Also, I expect that his marriage will be filled with affectionate bickering, joyful shenanigans and many happy accidents. And what with Eric's past still uncovered, I believe I could fill a series, long as the Encyclopedia Britannica, with their shared misadventures.

But I have to admit, dear readers, that I am getting on a bit. Things have been happening relentlessly and I _am_ nearly six years old. No spring mouse anymore, not by a long chalk. Someone my age must confront the idea of retirement and I have to admit that it's high time I started putting my paws up a bit. 

So, in case I don't get to write the follow-up and the follow-up of the follow-up and that much-awaited spin-off about Miss Scruple - let me just say this.

* * *

_Hidden in the English Channel there's an island called Piffling. On the island, there's a village called Piffling Vale. And the Village has a square and the square has this fantastic funeral home. It's run by a man called Rudyard Funn, his twin sister Antigone, their plucky assistant, Georgie Crusoe - and last but not least, Rudyard's husband and the most popular man on the island, Mr Eric Chapman._

_If you ever find yourself on the Channel Islands and in need of a burial, you should hire them. Together they'll throw a fun-filled funeral, complete with fond reminiscence and sweeter smelling fluids. And not only will they build you a coffin and give you a discount to top it._

_But they'll put the body in the coffin in the ground on time too._

The Ending

**Author's Note:**

> I am happy for this series to peter out the same way dear, old Colonel Hubbard went; without a shred of dignity left intact but the very least with a bang. :D


End file.
